


The Art of a Post Box

by Sherlock1110



Series: Random one shots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6553846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to talk to Stephen hawking he just needs to work out how the postal system works first. </p><p>Basically more fluff</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of a Post Box

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by sherlockian4evr

The Art of a Post Box

 

Sherlock was pacing the flat, bored, bored, bored.

He was actually waiting for the postman, he was just disguising himself as bored. He did not wait for anyone. They waited for him!

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked, rubbing his eyes, tiredly.

“I'm bored, John!”

“No, there's something different. There's no erratic pacing for a start. Just normal pacing.”

The detective shook his head and hopped over the chair to resume his indoor walk.

“It's 6.30 in the morning, come back to bed.”

“No, boring.”

“I promise it won't be?” John aimed for seductive, but he was so tired he missed it by a mile. He marched across the room and grabbed Sherlock's hand. He pulled him back towards their room. “Come on.”

“But the postman-”

“What?”

“I'm waiting for the postman. He's the guy that delivers mail? You know the one who always drops off the bills you complain about and let me burn?”

“Maybe one day, a very long time ago, he would have come at half 6. The earliest I remember him coming is 8 and I was a kid and it was 30 years ago. Now come back to bed.”

“But-”

“Sherlock, you'll be lucky if we see him before lunch. Now come on.” He gave him a sharp tug on the arm.

Sighing, the detective let himself be pulled back towards their rather comfy and warm bed.

John shoved him down and jumped on top of him, pinning his longer body beneath his own. “Now sleep, you little brat.”

It was a matter of minutes before the pair had drifted back off to sleep.

***

When John awoke the next time it was at a more reasonable time, but once again, Sherlock was gone. Sighing, he rolled out of bed and padded off in search of his loveable detective. He found him by the window.

“I said lunchtime, Sherlock,” he reminded the younger man as he went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“But I want him to come now!”

It wasn't until half 11 the postman arrived. Sherlock watched, entranced, as he went up one side of the street and came back down the other. He walked straight passed their flat to post mail in the next door letterbox.

“That can't be right! He must have missed us out.”

“How do you know he's going to reply anyway?”

“He knows Mycroft! And Mycroft said that he wanted to talk to me about some of my discoveries in the lab.”

“He lives an hour away, how long have you been waiting?”

“Forever!”

“Which is, in simpler terms?”

“About two weeks. I don't know. I thought Stephen Hawking didn't do a lot these days?”

“He's a very clever man. Despite his condition, he still has a life.”

“Well it's boring!”

“Where did you post it anyway?”

“The post office. Don't be oblivious John.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that. Which one?”

“The one on Northumberland Street.”

“Sherlock that shut down months ago. Do you not remember me telling you about it? You called me a moron and went upstairs.” The doctor dug through the mess on the table for yesterday's paper that he had never gotten the chance to read.

The detective frowned. “It's not shut. It said 'post office' above the door and had the box out the front.”

“Did you actually go in to the post office?”

“No. I didn't need to.”

“Then what the hell did you do with this letter?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It is really not rocket science, Doctor Watson.” He scowled as the blond reappeared from the kitchen and handed him a mug of tea. When John just raised an eyebrow he sighed. “I pushed it through the little gap in the little green box. It was easy.”

The mouthful of tea John had sipped suddenly sprayed across the flat in some sort of explosion.

“What the-”

“The green box?” John choked out, still laughing. He'd managed to place his mug on the coffee table and had fallen to the floor in uncontrollable giggles.

“Yes!” Sherlock snapped.

“That's not a post box, you twat, that's the bin!”


End file.
